At the far end of the deck she could see Clive searching round— for her she was sure—but she was not in the mood for him just then, and she had almost decided upon bed when Sir John spoke beside her.
“All alone?” he asked.
“Communing with my thoughts,” Rocky said in mock drama. She fell into step beside him. “Shall I bother you?” she enquired.
“That is a question which requires no answer,” he replied, and then: “Tell me what you were thinking?”
Rocky half sighed.
“It’s funny,” she said, “but I never deliberately stop and think— and yet sometimes I can’t do anything else. It’s as if thoughts come and sit down beside me and refuse to go away.”
“The best thing is to be kind to them, and then they’ll take their departure,” he said.
“Or stay longer,” she answered. “People do stay, don’t they, if you’re too kind to them?”
“All this sounds very grown-up and involved,” he said in amusement, and then he asked, “How old are you, Miss Rocky?”
It was queer that she answered unhesitatingly with the truth. “I’m twenty-two—but I don’t want you to tell everyone.”
“If you were forty-two there would be some reason for that request,” he said. “But as you look many years less than your age—” She broke in a little impatiently:
“You’ll laugh, I suppose, if I say that tonight I feel a hundred.”
But Sir John did not laugh, he only said kindly that there are moments in all lives when the Black Bogies must be allowed to have their own way, and then he asked: “But there is nothing definitely wrong, is there?”
“Oh no,” she agreed, perhaps a little too hurriedly. “It’s only that I suppose you can’t always feel as if the world is a perfectly marvellous place.”
“You should always feel like that,” he answered. “All your life is before you. For you this is a voyage out, whereas for me—and perhaps for many of us—” He stopped, and she asked interestedly:
“Yes? Please go on.”
“It’s a return journey,” he said.
She looked up at him. “What does that mean?”
He smiled down at her.
“Many things, perhaps, which you would not understand—at least I hope you would not understand.”
They paced a little way in silence till she asked hesitatingly: “Have you always been happy, Sir John?”
He laughed. “For every moment of my sixty-odd years do you mean? Isn’t that rather much to expect?”
“I don’t see why,” she said wilfully, and then in swift contradiction: “Why can’t we always be happy? It doesn’t seem fair.”
“If that is an admission, you already know the answer,” he told her. “Perhaps it is force of circumstances—or other people—or sickness—or money troubles—or dishonesty. I can find a million different reasons.”
“Yes, but if it isn’t your fault” she insisted.
He hesitated. “That’s not easy to answer,” he said at last. “You see, when one’s life is mixed up with the lives of others, it’s not possible to say who is at fault when things go wrong; it’s a combination of things which brings unhappiness.”
“Yes,” she agreed soberly, and then presently she asked a little shyly, “Have you got a wife—or a family?”
“I have never married,” he answered.
“Oh!” Then he must have been crossed in love, Rocky decided. She looked up at him shyly, wondering what sort of girl it was who had refused him—if that was the reason why he had never married, and then she thought in her usual reckless way, “I shouldn’t mind marrying him myself, even now.”
He broke in upon her thoughts. “Young Durham has been looking for you.”
“I know,” Rocky half sighed.
“He’s a nice young fellow,” Sir John said.
“Yes,” she agreed. “But I’d rather talk to you, if you don’t mind.”
And then, going back to her thoughts: “I suppose before you began travelling about the world you had a lovely home, didn’t you?”
There was a little silence before he answered.
“There was an old house in the country—in the West of England, where I spent my boyhood.”
Rocky nodded. “With a lovely garden,” she said, drawing upon her imagination.
“Yes—a lovely garden,” he echoed, and she had the queer feeling that for a moment he had forgotten her, and that he had gone back, even as she had done that evening, into days that could never come again.
And then he said suddenly, with a hint of amusement:
“It’s a good thing to remember, Rocky, that nothing is ever so good or so bad as we imagine.”
Rocky shivered. “Oh, I don’t like that,” she protested.
“It’s the truth,” Sir John declared. “And I speak from an experience which has taught me that it also applies to people. The villain of the piece is never so black as he is painted, and the Princess in the fairy-story is never quite such a piece of perfection. You remember that as you go through life, my dear, and you will find it an enormous help.”
“You’re so clever,” she said wistfully, and he answered:
“No, but I’ve had a great deal of experience.”
They paced the length of the deck again in silence, followed by the critical eyes of the maiden ladies, who were now occupying two deck-chairs and looking a little chilly.
“Young Durham is scowling at us through the smoking-room window,” Sir John said presently. “Shall we be kind to him and go in now?”
“I suppose so,” Rocky agreed, and then suddenly she stood still, looking up at him.
“What did you mean when you said that for you this was a return journey?” she asked. “What did you mean? And where are you returning from?”
Sir John took the cigar from between his lips and stared thoughtfully at its glowing tip.
“Ask me again—another day,” he said. “And perhaps I’ll tell you. It all depends whether I think it would be good for you to know.”
Chapter
4
ROCKY kept firmly to her resolution to be friends with everyone who seemed at all inclined to be friends with her, and so the following morning she paused in a sheltered corner of the deck where the two maiden ladies were ensconced in two deck-chairs which religiously bore their names, and remarked that it was a lovely day.
Two pairs of rather suspicious eyes were raised in her direction.
“We think it’s very cold,” they answered simultaneously.
“Oh, do you?” Rocky tossed back her bright hair, which was floating in the breeze. “You ought to walk about,” she said cheerfully. “Come and play bucket quoits; it’s such fun.”
“Bucket quoits!” From the tone of the elder lady, Rocky might have suggested that she stood on her head. “And what is bucket quoits?” she enquired.
Rocky laughed.
“Well, you throw quoits into a bucket,” she explained. “It’s really quite difficult. Do come and try. I am sure you would love it.”
The younger woman made a half-movement as if to obey, and, then she paused, and glanced at her sister.
“Shall we?” she hazarded.
The elder sister pursed her lips.
“You go by all means,” she said. “But if you take cold don’t blame me. It sounds a most ridiculous and childish game.”
“It isn’t when you try,” Rocky answered. “It’s really quite difficult. I’m no good at it at all. Clive beat my head off just now.”
“Clive?” they echoed in chorus.
“Clive Durham,” Rocky explained patiently. “The man in the green pullover. He’s nice really, when you know him.” She held out a persuasive hand to the younger sister. “Let me help you up.”
“I’m a little stiff this morning,” was the answer. “I’ve had rheumatism rather badly, and I’m hoping the warm weather will cure it for me.”
“Warm weather and exercise together,” Rocky agreed ch
eerfully. She took the younger sister’s thin hand and drew her to her feet. “This way,” she said. “It’s just round the corner in the sunshine.”
The younger sister glanced dubiously at the elder.
“Will you be all right?” she asked a little timidly.
“Do you think anyone will kidnap me during your absence?” was the reply.
“Tell me your name,” Rocky said as they moved away together. “Mine is Rocky—Rocky Chandler.”
“Our name is Pawson,” the younger sister answered, as if she had no separate individuality. “We are going to Australia for the winter. We have friends out there. Of course, we’ve never been out of England before; our father was a clergyman, and we have always lived in the country, so it is quite an adventure.” She laughed a little uncertainly. “My sister is older than I am,” she explained with growing confidence. “Her name is Caroline and mine is Esther.”
“What a pretty name,” Rocky said kindly.
Miss Esther’s pale face flushed.
“Do you think so? I think it is rather pretty myself. It was our mother’s name.” She hastened her steps a little to keep pace with Rocky. “It’s very kind of you to trouble about us,” she said. “It’s been rather dull so far. In fact, I’ve been envying you a little because you seemed so free—I mean, you can do just as you like all the time.” Her tone implied that she was distinctly under her sister’s thumb.
“You’ll soon get to know everyone,” Rocky assured her. “I’ll introduce you to Clive and his sister, and to Sir John——”
“We know Sir John,” Miss Esther said quickly, and there was a note of pride in her voice. “We think he is such a distinguished-looking man, and quite the gentleman. He lent me his rug one day as we were coming through the Bay. I felt a little ill, and he said that the best way to avoid seasickness was to keep warm, so he brought his rug on deck for me—so kind I thought, and it was such a lovely rug—lined with fur.”
“He is kind,” Rocky said.
“We saw you walking up and down with him last night,” Miss Esther said; she gave a little sigh of envy. “I suppose you’re never seasick?”
Rocky laughed. “I don’t know yet; it’s my first voyage of any importance and it hasn’t been rough enough for me to tell, but I don’t think I shall be.”
“I don’t think so, either,” Miss Esther agreed. “You look so perfectly well and healthy. I suppose you never have rheumatism either, do you?”
Rocky shook her head, carefully checking the smile which curved her lips.
“I expect I shall—later on though,” she admitted; and then hurriedly—afraid of being misunderstood: “Here we are; now I’ll just show you what to do.” She glanced down at the little woman’s dubious face. “You’d really play better without that thick coat,” she said. “But perhaps we’d better wait till you’re thoroughly warmed up before you take it off.”
Miss Esther looked as if nothing in the world could ever thoroughly warm her up, but as a concession she loosened the high-buttoned collar.
“Now you stand here,” Rocky explained. “And we each have six of these rings, and the game is to throw them into the bucket, and the one who gets the biggest number in, wins.”
“It looks terribly difficult,” Miss Esther murmured; she had never in all her life thrown anything more violent than breadcrumbs to the sparrows in her father’s garden.
“I’ll go first,” Rocky said kindly. “And then you’ll see how it’s done.” She deliberately threw the rings carelessly so as not to discourage Miss Esther. “Only three in!” she sighed. “I expect you’ll do far better.”
Miss Esther valiantly managed five successful throws; she certainly once or twice took half a step forward from the marked line where competitors were expected to stand, but Rocky made no comment.
“It’s really quite fun,” Miss Esther admitted timidly, as if she was not sure whether she ought to be enjoying herself.
“I think everything is fun,” Rocky said breezily. She stooped to gather up the scattered rings. “And I believe you’re going to be a good player. There’s a competition later on, and I shouldn’t be surprised if you are in the finals.”
“The finals?” Miss Esther echoed timidly.
Rocky explained. “It’s a knock-out, you see,” she said, blissfully unconscious that to all intents and purposes she was talking double-Dutch. “And the two who are left in play the last match, and the one who wins—wins.”
“It sounds very exciting,” Miss Esther murmured; she glanced round as if in search of her sister. “I think I will take my coat off,” she said guiltily.
They played three games, and Rocky lost them all.
It was worth it, she told herself afterwards, as she saw the eager flush on Miss Esther’s face, and then, as Clive and his sister sauntered towards them, she called out:
“Come and play—Miss Esther will be able to beat you even though I couldn’t.”
Miss Esther shrank back into the shell from which she had begun to emerge.
“Oh, I couldn’t play with them” she whispered to Rocky in deep agitation.
Rocky gave Clive a little nudge.
“Of course you can,” she declared. “Constance and I will play you two.”
As usual she carried the day, and after the first long-suffering moment Clive gallantly entered into the spirit of the thing, with the result that he and Miss Esther were a victorious pair.
“How perfectly wonderful” Miss Esther breathed; she looked up at Clive with profound admiration.
“We’ll take them on again tomorrow,” Clive said. “We’ll take on all comers and just show them!”
Miss Esther grabbed up her coat.
“And now I must go,” she said, with a sudden memory of her sister’s cold eye. “Thank you so much; it’s been perfectly delightful.”
She scuttled away looking rather like a scared rabbit, and when she had gone Constance said:
“Well, how you can bother with her I don’t know.”
“I like her,” Rocky answered stoutly.
“She’s not a bad old stick,” Clive agreed.
“I can’t stand old maids,” Constance said.
“We shall all be old some day—if we live long enough,” Rocky answered. “And I should hate to feel that when I’m old nobody will want to have anything to do with me.”
Clive linked his arm through hers.
“Well, now you’ve done your good deed for today, young ’un, what about a game of deck tennis?” he said. He dragged her off to the top deck. “You’re really rather a duck, you know,” he said with awkward affection. “I’m beginning to think that you mean it when you say that you like to be friends with everyone.”
“Of course I mean it.”
“You must have dozens of friends,” he said.
Rocky shook her head.
“I haven’t—there are lots of people who thoroughly disapprove of me.”
“Nonsense.”
“It’s the truth,” she insisted. “Not that it matters—at least, it doesn’t matter a great deal, but there are people, strange as it may seem, my child, who eye me with strong suspicion.”
“Meaning Wheeler?” he enquired.
She frowned up at him.
“Now why in the world should you think I mean him?” she demanded.
Clive laughed. “Oh, only because I think you’re probably right; but then I expect you’re a new type to him—a type that he can’t understand,” he added.
“Is that a compliment?” she asked.
“It was intended to be,” he laughed. “I asked Wheeler last night if he didn’t think you were attractive and he said, ‘I suppose so’— in the gloomiest way.” He tried to copy Wheeler’s voice.
“He’s prejudiced, you see,” Rocky said unthinkingly, and then flushed and turned her face away; but Clive caught the word quickly.
“Prejudiced! … How can he be? You never met till you came on board, did you?”
She shook
her head. “No; but I think he’s prejudiced all the same. I suppose I’m too lively. I think he would like a dull sort of girl best—a girl who would stand demurely in a corner and let him do all the running—not that he would run,” she added with sarcasm.
“Do you think perhaps he’s a married man?” Clive asked.
“Married? I don’t know—he may be. I’ve never thought about it.”
“I expect he is,” Clive said complacently. “He looks married.”
Rocky laughed. “Do men look any different when they are married?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yes, I think they do—they get a sort of smug, settled look—at least, all the married chaps I know do. Most of them put on weight and get lazy.”
“What a reference for marriage,” she said mockingly.
They had climbed the steep stairs to the top deck and could see Wheeler coming towards them.
“Don’t ask him to play,” Clive warned her, but it was an unnecessary warning, for Wheeler turned and went back the way he had come.
“The cut direct!” Rocky said dramatically. “He evidently doesn’t love us.”
“Well, we don’t love him, so we’re quits,” Clive answered. “Which side would you like?”
“I’m not particular.” But there was a little dispirited note in her gay voice.
And down on the promenade deck Miss Esther was eagerly explaining to her sister what a splendid and difficult game bucket quoits was when one tried!
“Not that I was too bad,” she submitted. “I played with that nice Mr. Durham, and he was most encouraging.”
Miss Caroline closed her book with a nasty little thud.
“I expect you made a complete fool of yourself,” she said calmly. “And why that Chandler girl took the trouble to speak to us at all, I cannot imagine.”
“She is a very charming girl,” Miss Esther said, with unwonted spirit, but her sister went on:
“I suppose she did it because she wants to be popular, but I call it condescension. Young people are all utterly selfish, and so it must have been for some reason of her own.”
“I think that’s unkind,” Miss Esther answered with gentle rebuke. “They have asked me to play again tomorrow morning.”
“By that time you’ll be in bed with rheumatic fever,” her sister said flatly, and then a self-conscious little smile spread over her disapproving face as Sir John rounded the corner and stopped beside them.
Return Journey Page 4
